Sorrow
by Exilo
Summary: In the aftermath of the Covenant Civil War, the Jirlahanae and their supporters are left to flee for their lives. But what did they leave behind? One shot. Prophet-centric. Dedicated to Avisu.


**A very special gift to Avisu, one of the best and closest people I have ever known. She's so wonderful. So sweet and kind. And in such a short bit of time, we have grown so close. Her birthday totally snuck up on me. Turns out I only had about a week to write this. I was worried I wouldn't make it, but the idea just came to me, and I managed to get it done. Which was very good. Too bad this is so damn depressing. Well, Avisu, this one's for you.**

_Sorrow_

I wake to the loud pounding of the captain's fist on my door. My sleep, as my sleep always is, is fitful and light. And dreamless. How I miss the sweet escape of dreams. My eyes ache, and my head throbs. The latter isn't helped by the captain's sudden bellow when I don't immediately acknowledge his attempts to enter. "Yes?" I ask lowly. Somehow he hears, and storms inside. How massive he is, I am, as always, shocked he can fit through the door wearing his full, golden armor. Like my robes, his armor has fallen out of its once perfect maintenance. It clings to his body, it's shields glow weakly. But he manages.

"Yes captain?" I ask.

"It is time for morning prayer," he grumbles, in his low voice.

I know better than to request to be left alone. The captain won't listen. It is his chieftain's policy that all eat together, all pray together. The chieftain has taken in others from other packs. There is still that primal animosity between different packs. These prayers are meant to unite us. Perhaps they do.

Nude, I rise from my bed, and shrug the robe onto my shoulders and back. It, like the captain's armor, barely holds together. Only many hours of stitching has let it last this long. I walk with him to the dining area, slouched and head held low. No. Not now. No time for that. Now, of all times, I must be strong. And so I carry myself with certainty and authority. When I step into the room, and the Jiralhanae turn to gaze upon me (apparently they had been waiting for my arrival to eat) I give them passive nods.

"Minister," the chieftain asks. "Would you lead us?"

On either side of me, are Jiralhanae. The captain, there have been times I have fancied him my bodyguard, at my left and at my right the captain's son. They offer their hands. I place my tiny by comparison hand in theirs, ignoring any fears I may have. I start the prayer.

"This is the Age of Fear, every day we know maybe our last. The Age of Slaughter, every day more corpses of ours litter the ground. The Age of Horror, the things we have seen, none before us have been burdened with. The Age of Loss." I pause. "We have all lost. Brothers. Fathers. Sons. Mates. The Sangheili and the humans have taken them from us. One by one, we have been lost into the darkness and despair. This is the Age of Death. There is no hope for an afterlife, a Great Journey that we may each godhood and salvation. There is nothing for us.

"This is also the Age of Unity. Alone we shall each succumb to the death squads of the Alliance. But together we may fight the never ending tide and stand against it. Though this pack was formed in desperation, it has grown into a pack that rivals the fleets and fields of the Alliance. Together, we are safe. We shall be strong. And we shall honor our fallen by living."

The lies I tell. I deserve the executioner's blade. Rival the Alliance fleets? We would be torn apart by the endless swarm of human and Sangheili. The most we can ever hope to do is outrun them. Reach Doisac and barricade the planet, and pray for a miracle. But I lie. Because that is what the Jiralhanae need to hear.

I've no appetite today. And food is scarce, so I do not bother to take my portion of the…meat. Stewed until unrecognizable, and in a heavy gravy. Courteous of the Jiralhanae to prepare my meal special, they simply eat…I shudder to think what creature contributed the slightly violet flesh…raw. I pass it to the youth beside me, better he eat and grow strong while he has the chance.

I lean back in my seat, listening to the Jiralhanae snarl and rip the meat off the bones. They gobble it down and snarl and fight amongst themselves for that extra bite. I close my eyes and fade away, to a long, long time ago. Before this. I retreat inside myself, and I think about her. I wish I could dream. There is something about a dream's abandon that I long for. But I never dream about the Prophetess of Sorrow.

I remember the first day I saw her. Oh, just to see her. It was to know that the Gods do exist, for only a god's steady hand could craft one so perfect as her. I was young then, and foolish; so full of life, so full of hope. Pushed to the rank of minister by the guiding hand of the Forerunners, I was so happy. To spread the good word. To give meaning to the war, and the feuds, and the fighting. I would remind all of the Great Journey, the bountiful rapture that we would reach, if we just endure. And yet, I had no idea of the responsibilities. All the lives, all the souls, were in my hand. And it was up to me to see them passed safely as they came to eternal rest. It was up to me to inspire. I was overwhelmed.

But she was there. My dear, sweet Sorrow. She was always there. Always there to guide me. To lead me. Her soft, tender hand in mine, taking me through the world, showing me what was needed. My mentor. My friend.

Deep down, I always wondered. It is…was…uncommon for a San 'Shyuum of my age to have reached the rank of minister. My, I am still so young. I wondered who saw me to my rank. Who was it that said I would make a skilled minister. I've always wondered why, if my suspicions are founded, why did she pick me? What did she see in me? So many nights I've stared into the mirror trying to see what Sorrow saw. What strength did she see? What spark? What fire? Why am I alive at all? I am not strong like the captain, or wise like Truth. I've no heart to fight and deal with the horrors that I've confronted. Why me?

I gag a little as the heat of the meat dissipates, and beneath it the smell comes to my olfactory sense. And while I look away from the ghastly display of Brutes eating, I'm with Sorrow, sharing a kind glass of wine on one of High Charity's upper sectors. I'm with her, feeling her warmth and the smell of her skin on my nose, the sweet spirit on my tongue.

Laws. It was the laws that kept me from truly feeling her, and sharing that one perfect moment with her. Oh, if I could just…just for one moment feel her warmth. That blessing the lowest Unggoy are free to live, encouraged to do even, I am denied. They say my genes aren't worthy to bare children. To feel that sweet intimacy was against the laws I saw long held. Oh, but if I just could have felt her warmth. Held her in my arms for one sweet night. I could rest with that knowledge, I could dream of that, soft and slow, stretching it's every detail. I haven't slept in weeks. But if I could just dream about her.

With a snarl, the meat is gone. The pack is finished. I lift my head to look. There's a rumble in my stomach, but the youth has already eaten. I am happy I can satisfy his hunger at least. The memory drifts away and I'm alone, surrounded by the Jiralhanae. Barbarians. Slobs. Noble creatures deep down, and loyal to each other. And kind to take me into their pack. Disgusting creatures I think of as brothers. But they can't fill the void of Sorrow. I've fantasized that during our long travels to avoid the Alliance death squads I should find another. Perhaps that hope is what let's me survive. A fool's hope. What I want to hear, not what I know to be true. Nothing could ever replace Sorrow. Why do I bother?

I rise from the seat and, silent, head for my quarters. I make no noise, my feet slide over the ground and my breath is weak. And she is beside me. I can just feel Sorrow's hand in mine as we walk. It was on a planet, I forget the name. We gave it to the Mgalekgolo. Its climate was to their liking. Sorrow and I traveled there to thank them for their service. Publicity. The Mgalekgolo could not have cared less, so she and I traveled over the lands, hand in hand, for days and days, enjoying the sweet clean air and each other's company. She wanted to. She wanted me to hold her. She wanted us to retreat to a private space. But I was a coward, bound by the laws. She wanted to run away. To flee the endless war and blind devotion, but I was a fool, and I had my duty.

I'm back in my quarters, and when I sit down, in my bed, she's beside me. Her arms are around me, her chest on my back, leaning into me. Her warm breath is on my nape. Her soft kisses over my skin. I can smell her perfume. I can hear the chime of her voice, "I love you."

But that's just my imagination. The Sangheili killed her a day into the Civil War.


End file.
